Clash of Wills
by SkyBleu
Summary: Travis and Wes were already a powder keg waiting to explode the moment they scented one another.


**Clash of Wills (It's called a Relationship)**

**Disclaimer**: Common Law doesn't belong to me, so don't sue.

* * *

_(Their bodies were thrumming on adrenaline and sheer willpower, the scent of gunpowder and burnt asphalt clinging to them like a second skin. Their bodies vibrated against one another with excess energy, spilling off them like water on veneer as they pushed – always pushing like negative and positive charges – and pulling, and grasping the other for purchase in the self-made storm they had created.)_

Travis and Wes were already a powder keg waiting to explode the moment they scented one another.

The first time they met – it was a glance.

Wes was still a cop, sitting in the back meticulously scribbling notes on his notepad. Travis was up front, standing to the side as his partner debriefed the rest of the department on the Gentleman Caller Serial Killer.

Wes was on duty as a member of the Missing Persons department for the case. With his GQ flair and annoying clicking pen habit, Travis would have pegged him as a frat-boy alpha hoping to get out of speeding tickets.

He was wrong on both counts.

Travis was a new detective struggling with his senior partner, an eccentric beta with a peculiar speech pattern. Wes was trained to read people as a lawyer, a difficult skill to turn off; it followed him through the Academy, much to disconcert of his peers and instructors. Listening to Phil speak – barely letting Travis in edgewise – Wes looked back down to his phone, waiting for Alex to text him back, and briefly wondered how long their partnership would last.

They finally spoke at the crime scene of another of the Gentleman Caller's victims – a pretty beta woman with brown hair, living alone with neighbors who worked late.

Her lifeless chocolate brown eyes were directed at the partially opened window – whether staring at her slim way out to freedom or watching her attacker flee the scene while she lay degraded and dying - - Wes had to pause that train of thought: h e had his own demons to tend to.

He was assigned to watch the perimeter, quietly observing the nosy bystanders, forensic techs, and the detective lingering behind in the doorway on the other side of the yellow police tape.

Travis bereted himself – the guilt of the crime weighed heavily on his mind much like the globe on Atlas' shoulders.

The dead body, still _warm_, in the next room; it all could have been avoided if Phil –

"If you're just going to stand there looking guilty and doing nothing, then I would suggest you move to the side for the more useful people…" A pause, "_Detective_."

Travis snapped out of her reverie, his eyes locking with stern grey ones.

_(He was hungry. Wes bodily pressed himself closer to Travis, his tongue eagerly swiping the lingering taste of cherry from the lollipop he was licking deviously earlier – teasing him with sweets because Wes was abstaining from sweets for the month. Travis was laughing, well, as much as one could while another person's tongue was attempting to lick every crevice, and doing a damn good job at it, of his mouth. Travis shifted, the palms of his hands curving perfectly around Wes' hipbones, eagerly taking as much as he was receiving.)_

He sniffed. Another alpha.

Musky, earthy with rich undertones of citrus and –

The blonde was challenging him.

"I'm not doing nothing," Travis seethed, stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets defensively.

Wes tilted his head towards the direction of the body, Phil's voice loud and boisterous, and answered with a quirk of his lips. "Then show me you're doing something."

Travis opened his mouth only to close it. That white-hot heat of competition, burning like the first taste of cheap liquor down this throat, coupled with the need to wipe that smirk off the other's face and make him eat his words eclipsed the guilt, the anxiety, the second thoughts – _Phil_. He stormed in with renewed vigor, not before he purposely bumped into the blonde cop's shoulder.

Challenge accepted.

Travis quickly found himself more frequently away from Phil as his partner tracked down leads that he knew would be dead-ends or half-answers.

If he happened to run into a blonde ("Mitchell, Wes Mitchell") in the break room, the case folder spread haphazardly on the table in front of him in a manner that allowed the blonde cop to easily see and subsequently add input, then no one needed to know.

Minus one watchful greying alpha.

_(Travis tasted bright – like mint and all the sugary things in the world that Wes was never allowed to have as a child.) _

"Good job Marks," Captain Sutton stated, clapping a hand firmly on his shoulder. Officers and detectives alike crowded around Travis and Wes to shake their hands, or in Travis's case, high-five. "You too, Mitchell."

"Just doing my job, Captain," Wes muttered as he quietly extricated from the crowd. His detective exam results should have been emailed to him by now. He caught Travis' eye and nodded to him, his lips tilted slightly upward; not that cocky grin from their first meeting, but an actual goddamn smile.

Travis automatically moved forward, the lump that had been sitting on his chest ever since he and Wes had followed his hunch and made their first big break in the case jumping to his throat. His fingertips briefly snagged the crook of Wes' elbow, trying to keep Wes be his side, the person who encouraged him, listened to him, spoke to him as if he had something meaningful to say, his partn –

"Hells yeah," Phil loudly crowed as he wrapped an arm around Travis' shoulders, tugging his attention away from Wes. "_Teamwork_."

If the crowd of law enforcement around the two quieted, the only indicator that Phil noticed was the slight hitch of his shoulders.

"Phil," the Captain stated, standing rigidly to the side. He was using his Captain Voice. "We need to talk."

Phil paused, his grip loosening slightly from Travis' shoulder. "Yes…sir."

"Mitchell!" He barked towards the retreating blonde.

Wes looked up from his phone, his finger centimeters away from opening up the email from the Detective's Examination Board. "Captain?"

"Come to my office in the morning." He paused, "You too, Marks."

There was a reason why alpha partnerships in law enforcement were rare – alpha interactions without something to buffer their aggressive personalities were bound to lead to an explosion of pheromones and headstrong stubbornness that eight times out of ten would lead to a visit to the emergency room.

This was the 21st century – of course there were ways around this bio-psychological caste system that persisted despite the better living conditions and improving child mortality rates. The fierce need to mate and reproduce was unnecessary. It was actually a burden in some cases, as seen in developing countries where families could barely feed one child let alone a gaggle of them. Pharmaceutical companies had created suppressants on a mass scale to reduce the pheromones emitted by alphas, beta, and omegas to mitigate their biological needs and the potency of their pheromones and its effects on other dynamics. However, those pills, shots, contraceptives, even body washes – all cleverly created in less than a century's time could not change the evolutionary mechanisms that were selectively sewn into their genetic sequences over thousands of years for optimal reproductive survival.

This reflected haphazardly in contemporary society and a little more than awkwardly, verging on disastrous (prime, and possibly only example, being Travis and Wes), on the police force.

Beta-alpha/beta-beta/beta-omega partnerships were common and easy; they were nothing but adaptable.

Alpha-omega partnerships were also common. They were often their best in the Special Victims Unit. Neither Wes nor Travis envied the emotional capacity needed to work in that department.

Omega partners were less common, but on the force, they were still more common than alpha partnerships. In fact, some would argue, they were the most efficient of the partners. It just _clicked_ for them.

Alpha partnerships were rare. However, when two alphas were able to coexist without pummeling each other into the pavement, it _worked_.

Captain Sutton and his former partner Hurley were both big shot alphas. Their partnership was legendary.

He must have seen something in his former partner and himself in Wes and Travis because after the case with the serial murder and women, he submitted a recommendation for the reassignment of one Detective Travis Marks to Detective Wes Mitchell to the Robbery-Homicide division.

Their partnership went from awkward, pretty good, rocky and finally explosive – the possibility of survivors: slim. The amount of paperwork needed for the account and requisition of and for furniture, office supplies, and items that were not nailed down that were used as aerial assault weapons was staggering. The Captain had a contract with an office supplies contractor specifically for – and solely due to – Wes and Travis.

He credited the two for his already receding hairline.

Except, when they worked, when both alphas could briefly look beyond one another, their conflicting personalities and their tenuous biology, and focus the case in hand – that was when this partnership worked well and Captain felt at peace with the world.

"Where is my hand sanitizer?!"

Travis zipped by his doorway, a smirk on his lips and a remarkably familiar looking object in his hand.

Briefly.

_(Wes would say Travis started it except all rational thought dispersed on the tip of his tongue as he shuddered and moaned out loud. Travis, his hand stuffed in the front of Wes' slacks and mouth pressed against the crux of his shoulder would otherwise be too preoccupied to retort.) _

They were in couples' therapy for their partnership because the amount of time they fought finally exceeded the amount of good that resulted from their time together.

Unsurprisingly, Travis liked the other couples. The older couple, Mrs. and Mr. Dumont, an omega woman and alpha male; the female alpha and male beta, Rozelle and Clyde; and the beta couple, Dakota and Peter that reeked of high school sweethearts. The love stricken couple were interestingly enough, the most vivid reflection of how Wes and Travis' partnership had the least amount of hope in terms of working out.

Dr. Ryan leaned forward, her fingers neatly interlocking as she locked eyes with Travis and Wes when they first entered the room. They both froze.

"Please," she said simply. She was a confident omega, her pheromones commanded attention in a way that only slightly betrayed the otherwise serene smile on her face. "Have a seat."

_(Their first kiss was unconventional. There was no romance, not like with their previous partners – betas and the occasional omega – that was all sweetness, a rush of thrill that tasted bubbly and vibrant like the first sip of soda. No, this tasted like blood, the borderline painful clash of teeth and tongue and feel of fingers scrambling to unbuckle, unbutton, tear in some cases through cloth to reach firm flesh.)_

It was only after their divorce did Wes finally come to the realization that Alex understood the dynamics of his and Travis' relationship better than he ever did. Perturbingly enough, the messed up and convoluted paradigm of their partnership were easily – and way too readily, thought Wes – dissected apart in these one-hour long, twice weekly therapy sessions. It was a little annoying that they were better understood by this random assortment of couples and one insightful psychiatrist than their own coworkers did – and they were the ones who worked with them!

Ellen, the pretty omega from Forensics, probably realized the extent of their partnership more than she explicitly stated while leaving Travis' trailer that night (minus the derogative emails and text messages she sent to Travis and Wes after their 'break-up' before she left).

Wes stood firm that Travis and Ellen were bound to break up within a week's time, plus, they had to solve a murder and save an innocent young man's reputation – thus, cockblocking Travis was for the greater good.

Travis thought otherwise, albeit, half-heartedly because _c'mon_ – she sewed his name on her panties!

There was no longer an underground office pool regarding the duration of Travis' conquests because of the dwindling pool of available candidates and Wes, the cheater, had this uncanny ability to tell when Travis was going to break up with his latest conquest despite the odds.

Wes made out like a bandit with his winnings. He double-downed on the office pool between Travis and Jonelle.

Not that he would ever tell her, of course. He had to have someone on his side at LAPD.

_(There weren't any omega, heck, even beta pheromones that they could use as pretense for their actions.) _

Wes quit their partnership exactly three times.

The first was on the first week of his partnership with Travis. When he 'quit' it was more out of irritation with the incessant and lighthearted flirting with Alex that garnered a smile – an honest one, the ones she used to shoot him before he quit the firm. He had not seen her smile like that for a long, long time.

He was surprised – he almost forgot what that expression looked like on Alex; too focused on repenting for his crime.

_("Don't stop. Don't you dare fucking stop." Wes moaned against Travis' mouth, grinding into his partner's clothed erection. Their perp had been caught, his wife in critical condition in the ER, and their kids had been found safe, so they needed to celebrate. This seemed fitting in the worst possible way.) _

The second – it was a bad case. They were partners for nearly four years. This case had hit too close to home – George Levitt, an unbonded beta who had recently been recused of a triple homicide involving his next door neighbors – a young alpha-omega couple, Alyssa and Megan Hoggart, and their unborn child – that had left him in jail for twenty years was on a crime spree. They were small robberies, nothing too dangerous except – except, _why_?

He had a two and a half million dollar settlement. Most people would have taken a long retirement.

Except.

He had no one out in the real world – no family, no friends – nothing meaningful to temper the stark cold reality of the outside world where he was another nameless face.

All he had was his name, money, a guilty conscious, and no direction – a dangerous combination.

The only semblance of normalcy for him was in jail.

The case grated on Wes' nerves – an innocent man and a lawyer-counseled guilty statement in order to avoid a life-penalty, and Travis, damn him, with asinine attempts to defuse the sweltering tension which only furthered Wes' opinion of him that he was a lazy ass.

Just hours before Levitt was found, Wes walked up to Travis' motorcycle, his lunch in one hand and a butter knife in the utter. He opened the lid to the cream cheese container and carefully spread it across the seat of Travis' bike until the supple black leather was coated in bright white cream cheese. Next he popped open a Tupperware container of lox and decorated the cream cheese with thin slices of smoked salmon in a plaid pattern before sprinkling a whole can of capers on top of the concoction to off set the white of the cream cheese and pink flesh of the salmon.

That day, Wes ate a banana for lunch and Travis dumped the entirety of the station's trashcans on top of his neat desk.

_(In Travis' trailer, Wes' hotel room, the precinct's shower, fumbling in the closet in the basement on the floor where they kept the John/Jane Doe's. They say each time as pants fall to the ground, their mouths consuming one another in desperation, lust overriding that pesky voice called rationality, that this time will be the last time.) _

Later that night, Levitt ended up killing a gas store clerk, and Wes was first on the scene. Travis was probably still cleaning the cream cheese from the seat of his bike. He knew it was a bad idea especially after a firefight broke out, leaving a bullet lodged in his side and the other in his shoulder, and probably thousands of dollars in property damage to file.

Wes really did not like paperwork. Travis never used the proper color of ink. Glittery, fluorescent gel pens did not count. The gun was shaking, pointing toward his head, Levitt's fingers shaking, and Wes wondered if Travis would use his orange gel pen just to spite him when he wrote up his reports for this case.

He vaguely remembered gritting his teeth and wishing he had Kate Reed on speed dial at this moment because she would have known what to do in this situation since she had dealt with a similar case the year before.

"I…I could've saved them," Levitt whispered. Unbidden tears were forming in the corners of his eyes and down his face. He looked so very old. He was forty-three years old. "Twenty years and all I can remember is that I was too drunk to hear their screams."

Levitt's sad eyes, the raw desperation in his voice and Wes knew he was already too late for this man.

"You know what?" his voice cracked, "I sometimes imagine that I can hear them at night…just before I go to sleep. That I can hear them calling for help, that I can hear Alyssa begging that person to spare her life for her _baby_."

Déjà vu, and then Wes, with his iron will had to force the memories that he had carefully stowed away in the deepest parts of his mind in carefully labeled and color-coded storage bins from popping the lid off and rearing their ugly heads. They always popped up during inopportune times; his client's expressions during the verdict, the judge, the jury, the psychiatrists, Harvey's roundabout style of comfort, and Alex's expression when he spoke to her of his change in careers.

He took a step forward. There – there had to be a way. "No, no, no, you can't do this – think it over –"

Wes was only five feet away from the man, his blood soaking irreparably into one of his favorite suit jackets, ignored protocol, and outstretched a hand to tug the gun away – and god, all he could see were those familiarly sad eyes. He could feel the warm of Levitt's hand just before he heard that familiar click.

**BANG**.

_(Wes grunted, the back of his heel hitting a loose shelf causing them to tumble into Travis' bed with a thud. Travis did not skip a beat. During the fall, he somehow wrangled Wes' belt off his pants and thrown it across the room to the kitchen area. Wes retaliated with a flick of his wrist, shoving Travis' boxers down to reveal a hard cock, the tip leaking pre-cum and smelling of musk. Before Travis could open his mouth to say something witty about what a 'real Alpha cock looks like', Wes slid off the bed and dropped to his knees – there was not even a pause or a second thought before he looked up with a tilt of his head, catching Travis' eyes and holding his wide-eyed gaze as he parted his kiss swollen lips and engulfed Travis' dripping erection into his mouth with fluid ease, his fingers forming a tight ring around his growing knot. That shut Travis up quickly enough.) _

He was in the hospital for two days. One day was spent due to unconsciousness caused by shock from blood loss due to a bullet impacted against his side; the other bullet cleanly shot through him. The other day was because of mandated psychological debriefing. Alex was a traitor and Captain was no longer allowed to have tea chats with her and Dr. Ryan.

Levitt, with his eyes - - sad, desperate, and _guilty_ –

Wes had always been good at organization – his sock drawer was ordered by activity type, then color and now he had another memory to carefully compartmentalize and stow away to re-examine later, preferably while intoxicated. Levitt was twelve stories below from his room, lying on a cold slab of steel, a third of his brain blown away, and the rest of him waiting to be dissected for his viable organs. Wes consoled himself that at least the organs were being put to good use.

Travis would have called him a sick fuck for that sort of rationalization.

Wes sent his resignation papers via express mail two hours later after he regained consciousness.

He was thinking of going on sabbatical to Florida – he already knew someone, a cousin on his mother's side, who was already living there as an entourage doctor. At least he was someone from his mother's side who he was on cordial terms with.

Not even a few hours later, Travis appeared in the middle of his doorway. He had a very large, stuffed purple cat tucked underneath his arm with "Glad You're Not Dead" embroidered on the bright yellow ribbon tied around its neck, a pissed off expression on his face that was borderline homicidal rage, and Wes' resignation paperwork in his trembling hands.

Wes was impressed that he pulled off a look so flawlessly while holding that ridiculous stuffed animal. He did not get to say as much before Travis started yelling.

Suffice it to say, the combined efforts of three, six foot-something orderlies and the pretty nurse working a double shift were needed in order to drag Travis out of Wes' room on grounds of disorderly conduct.

The plaid-vest wearing cat plush that Travis threw at Wes as the six foot, seven inch orderly (former linebacker in the minor leagues) pushed him out of the doorway stared accusingly at him throughout the night.

Wes sighed and picked up his phone.

It rang once.

"Mitchell."

"Captain, about those papers I sent to you – "

"Already destroyed."

"But – "

"You should thank your partner. He grabbed the paperwork before I could make copies and file them."

"I…I won't," Wes had to swallow the bubble of emotion lodged in his throat, "_Apologize_. But I'll be back as soon as possible."

Captain snorted but he did not say anything, the only sound between them was of their breathing until he finally spoke.

"Next time you try a stunt like that, you're on indefinite administrative duty."

"Yes, sir." Wes slowly loosened his tight, knuckle-white hold on the plush's stuffed paw.

Wes was confined to his desk for two weeks after his shooting. It was one week longer than he needed, especially during the entire duration of the time, Travis ranted on and on about how he was _that_ close to getting that omega nurse's number if Wes hadn't fucked it up for him.

The Captain was very mean-spirited for someone so spiritual.

_(If I'd known," Travis panted, threading his long fingers through Wes' hair, staring at the stretch of Wes' slick, pink lips around his turgid length. "That this would've shut you up, I would've suggested this sooner.") _

The third time, some would think would be during the event when he pulled a gun on Travis. No, he was mad at his partner but he was not willing to quit at that moment. He just wanted to see those bright blue eyes conveying an emotion other than cockiness.

_(Wes tilted his head to the side, a thin ribbon of saliva connecting his swollen lips to Travis' cock. He smirked and Travis had to think about bad, __**bad**__ things to keep from coming. "Since you can still talk, I must not be trying hard enough.")_

No, the third time he quit was at headquarters. He was so mad at Travis. Why, why did he have to be saddled with the most infuriating, self-serving alpha as his first partner, let alone _the_ partner that he apparently worked best with? Who had the gall to call out his past mistake for what it was – **his** _mistake_.

The one mistake that cost someone their life.

And his client, Levitt, and those persistent ghosts that he thought were at bay were finally let loose again. Namely, in the form of acidic words via Travis Marks, who had to be the most irresponsible dick in the entire department if not the west coast, which was in some way hypocritical and – and –

There was a splash of red, hot rage in his vision; Travis' statement burning in his ears like rich, boiling hot coffee, and Wes could not accept it.

Wes realized he had thrown a punch at his partner after he felt himself thrown through a window and onto Brady's desk, his partner pinning him down.

That was their most public breakup to date.

_(The drive to Travis' apartment nearly never came into fruition. Wes blamed Travis' and his clever fingers on his lap as he gripped the steering wheel so hard that the indents of his fingers still remained.) _

An apology and a closed case there it was, they had made up and neither Wes or Travis even bothered bringing up their previous fight except to see who would have won if the chief and several of their larger peers had not physically disentangled them from one another.

_(They would later categorize the aftermath in the bath. Travis leaning back against the bath tub, his hands on Wes' hips, a self-satisfied smirk on his lips as he watched the blonde alpha sink down on his cock, shuddering and mewling like an omega in heat as he furiously gripped his own cock with a slippery hand. The vicious bruises against his pale skin marks of ownership and mineminemine imprinted on his skin like an ornate tattoo – a testament to last evening's activities.) _

"This is stupid," hissed Wes as he eyed the door to the therapy session's room like it was the bubonic plague.

"We go or we lose our jobs," Travis replied for the fifth time that day. He roughly shoved his hands in his pocket, a nervous habit Wes quickly picked up on. "Or…or we could request a partner reassign – "

"Shut up."

"Hey," protested Travis, honestly offended. "I was trying to be helpful."

"It's like asking if I would rather lick your desk or chew off my own arm," countered Wes.

"Glad to know being partners with me is sandwiched somewhere between your crazy germ-phobia and limb removal," Travis said sarcastically.

"You beat limb removal by a _hair_."

Wes took a step backward. At that moment, he saw a glimpse of hesitance in Travis' eyes, his shoulders braced for certain disappointment – he was waiting to be abandoned.

Wes had to groan loudly, more so for effect than irritation he would later rationalize with himself, before taking a step forward and swing the door open with a loud 'thud'.

He ignored Travis' relieved grin.

_(They did not cuddle. Their relationship, partnership or whatever the psychology books called it, did not qualify for cuddling. Although – although if Wes threw an arm around Travis' waist when the other starts trembling, mumbling names he remembered Travis mentioned briefly, and tucked his nose into the sweet smelling curls of his partner, holding him close, neither mention it in the morning when they're in the same position.) _

"You're making…progress," Dr. Ryan stated slowly. If Wes knew better, and he liked to think that he did, he would surmise she was perplexed if not suspiciously surprised.

"Begrudgingly," Wes offered because he was growing fond of making the corner of her left eye twitch.

"We have been doing good," Travis stated earnestly. "I think we've been sending out good karma and you know," he wagged his finger for emphasis, "Do good things and good things will happen."

"I would like to optimistically believe in an existential sense, you're right. Karma aside," she narrowed her eyes like a shark about to go in for the kill. "I'm curious as to the events leading to _why_ there is a sudden decrease in paperwork involving the misuse of office supplies as impromptu weaponry."

"Captain," Wes and Travis simultaneously groaned.

Dr. Ryan smiled serenely while the rest of the group leaned further, scrutinizing them because there was an almost imperceptible difference in the way they carried themselves around one another – it was a shade different from the first time the two walked in to couple's counseling.

"We talk," Travis said lamely while Wes pointedly turned the other way.

"What are you talking about?" Rozelle questioned, her eyes alight with vicious delight.

"_Stuff_," and Travis ended it with an uncharacteristically fierce glare that caused even Dakota and Peter to quiet from their giggling.

Neither police officer made a comment of the behind-the-back high-five between their therapy group.

Peter and Clyde non-discreetly exchanged money, _dammit_.

Dr. Ryan stared at them speculatively before she announced they were going to play one of her scenting games.

_("Lazy ass," Wes yawned as he attempted to both sit up in bed while avoiding hitting his head on the low-hanging shelves. "Stay," Travis muttered, an arm around his waist and a firm hand on his hip and Wes found himself flopped on the bed, Travis' nose pressed against his collar bone, taking deep breaths.) _

She stopped them both before they left.

She reached out to them but abruptly paused, her fingertips inches away from the curve of Travis' shoulder. "Do not," she paused and for a moment, they saw her raw concern. "This," she made an innocuous, albeit vague, hand gesture between the two of them. "Whatever this is, between you two – it does not _define_ you." She finally pressed her hand against Travis' shoulder, inches away from the hickies, the careful slide of canines that were just shy of breaking tender skin, which had been placed along it last night. "You both are allowed to be selfish. Whether or not you see what you have for what it is though is up to you to realize."

They pointedly did not look at one another the whole ride back to the station.

Except, except they made a pit stop in an abandoned parking lot off the main strip. Wes reached over and grabbed him by the collar of his shirt; the sharp slide of Travis' fingernails digging into last night's bruises along his hipbones a welcome relief – anything, anything to erase the carefully neutral smile on Dr. Ryan's face.

This, whatever this was, it was going to break them – they both knew it. They knew she was right, as per usual, that they were allowed to be selfish.

Except they would not ask for more.

They had already lost so much, the possibility of losing one another – that oddly irritating but undeniably one good thing in their lives – fear kept them from asking that question of forever.

So, they hurt, they hurt one another, inflicting scars upon each other in the broken hope that this form of forever was enough.

And one night, it was not enough. It was an otherwise forgettable evening – Italian night, and Travis was sitting on the island of Wes' rented townhouse. Wes was settled comfortably between his partner's thighs, languidly kissing the other alpha while Travis' fingertips slid under his shirt and traced nameless scribbles across his pale skin. His made from scratch spaghetti sauce behind him simmered away – it was supposed to be another night of lying to themselves, basketball, beer, and great Italian food.

Suddenly though, Travis pulled away, one hand still on his lower back, his pink finger gently resting on the inside of his boxers like a branding iron while the other was pressed against his shoulder. His normally vibrant blue eyes were hooded and his brow was furrowed and a little part of Wes braced himself.

They could still be partners without the physical benefits, without the dinners and morning afters where Wes stayed in bed an hour longer than usual just to watch Travis' chest rise up and down against the rising sun and –

"Bond with me," Travis stated, desperate. He licked his lips, demanding, "Don't say 'no'. I refuse to hear a 'no' from you – "

"Yes," Wes quickly answered, not believing his own words but he had to say it – before this apparition, this dream, or maybe this self-delusion that his personal ghosts had created for his weak mind, disappeared.

" – and I know you like saying no, _especially_ to me, but you're strictly forbidden in this cas -" Travis blinked, disbelief clear as day on his face.

"Yes," he repeated, waiting to wake up; waiting to open his eyes and carefully mend his shattered heart before he started the day.

"God, you're so gonna regret this," Travis said with a gleeful smile as he tightened his legs and pulled Wes forward for a kiss.

The next morning, Wes woke up to Travis in his arms, the darker alpha's head tucked underneath this chin. He counted to one hundred and seventy three before he finally had the nerve to extricate from Travis' grip.

Travis did not let go.

"Stop thinking," Travis murmured, his full lips brushing against a pleasantly sore part of his neck, the part of his neck where Alex had formerly left her mark, the one he had previously scrubbed clean through the painful bonding separation procedure.

He carefully rewound his arms around Travis' broad shoulders. He felt the dry, clotted blood on Travis' neck, the same identical location as his, scrape against his bicep. For once, Wes could not articulate words. Instead, he pressed his forehead against the top of Travis' head.

Without a doubt, Travis was awake now.

He swallowed, the reality of the situation…was not as heavy as he thought it would be – it was lighter, actually, no matter how cliché that sounded.

"Good morning," he finally uttered.

"Man," Travis laughed against his chest. "You are so awkward."

"Shut up," Wes felt a smile creeping along his face. "_You're_ awkward."

"You're like, the Ice King of Awkward," Travis retorted, still laughing and refusing to let go.

"I'm awkward because you're awkward," Wes stated and he knew that made absolutely no sense but it was seven in the morning and he needed at least one coffee before he was in optimal bickering mode.

"That didn't even make sense," Travis burrowed against him, breathing deeply. Their scents were already starting to comingle. Since they essentially lived and worked together, it would be days before everyone knew they were bonded.

"You don't make sense," Wes stated stubbornly, causing his partner, _his_, to laugh even louder.

* * *

**A/N**: Thoughts? Comments? Critique? I'll happily take praise if that's all ya got.


End file.
